Going like a train

I don't know why cyclists talk about going like a train, but I know the feeling well. It is when your legs feel strong whatever comes and nothing seems to tire you. It is within you, it isn't just about the terrain. Sometimes it just happens, a combination probably of rest, nutrition, hydration and mood. I have left far better cyclists standing when this feeling descends.

All of today is a train ride! Eating up the miles, as a good friend used to say. Village after village whizzes by. The terrain is lumpy.....meaning up for a km or three and then down again. No climb is longer than 6k and the descents all seem more than I have earned in the climb. Starting at quarter past eight I have come 70 km before noon. As the wind gets stronger it becomes clear that it is often helping me out - unusually for a wind!

I wonder, not for the first time, about the shrines along the way. Some are definitely personal memorials, others seem to be tiny chapels. They are often at crossroads which seem places of superstition or divinity in various cultures. I think they may once have been sacred to Hecate; in Sri Lanka one cuts a bough or two to offer at the shrine of the spirits of the crossroads, and in England, various unfortunates would be buried at crossroads. Worth considering what gave such places power and whether these Greek shrines also reflect that power.

By 2pm I have come 100km and reached Nafpaktos, once Lepanto, where a decisive battle was fought with the Ottomans. It feels at war with itself today, in the dust and sudden heat, as cars race everywhere. The police direct me and all the cars away from some great gathering. somehow I am through the whole town before I know it, and it seems best to carry on rather than stay the night as planned. The wind is ferocious now, whipping up the docile Mediterranean into waves that batter the beach. The wind seems to be along the channel of the Corinthian Gulf, and I don't fancy crossing the bridge in such a strong cross-wind. So I settle for stopping at Antirrio, the start of the bridge, even though I feel strong enough to carry on further.

I have time to look around at the ferries, the bridge and the lighthouse as the sun sets and skies darken. Having stocked up on for tomorrow, I am helped by the receptionist to understand a takeaway menu. It is fairly straightforward, especially if you say the transliterations in your head. I have to ask what a klamp pitta is and it is only when I hear it pronounced as "clab" that I realise it is some pita bread version of a club sandwich! I kick myself for not working this out, as I know perfectly well that "mp" is pronounced like "b" in English. Another comic error arises: I ask about an ingredient I don't recognise and am told it is vegetarian. I order a pita with this filling, wondering if it is aubergine or chickpea, tofu or what. It disappoints somewhat when it turns out to be ham! I know ham and sausages are considered vegetarian in Italy, so I am not too surprised.